


Melanography

by 4mation



Series: Chiaroscuro [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Sexual Content, Multiple Selves, Multiple Universes Colliding, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4mation/pseuds/4mation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Photography: created from the Greek roots ‘phōtos’ meaning ‘light’ and ‘graphé’ meaning drawing.”<br/>Max Caulfield is a photographer by trade. Immortalising instants, capturing time, revisiting moments; these are her goals. Beauty and horror, joy and terror, love and hatred, tranquillity and chaos. Nothing escapes her camera.<br/>Maybe that’s the problem. What does nothing look like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand, this is a sequel to my work Chiaroscuro. Would strongly recommend reading that one first, if you want to understand what’s going on here. Partially inspired by Doctor Who. Hope you guys enjoy. Brownie points to whoever can pick up some references. Cookie to whoever figures out what the title means.
> 
> Warning: spoilers for Life is Strange episode 4, character death, emotional manipulation, light sex, referenced abuse, referenced assault, referenced rape.  
> Listening to: Bullets by Archive  
> Mountains by Message to Bears  
> Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran

 

She is fifteen years old when she first discovers her power.

The other girls are laughing at her. Seattle is a wonderful city, and the arts are truly astounding here, but the people? Well, she supposes that everywhere has its own bullies, its own victims, its own injustices. She wonders if that makes her feel better.

It doesn’t.

Jessica is still pointing at her, giggling. Angelica, to her left, laughs loudly, while Chloe sniggers. She knew a Chloe, back in Arcadia Bay. She wonders for a moment if she’s doing okay, back home. This Chloe makes for a poor substitute. Pudgy where hers was slim, tanned where hers was pale, snobbish where hers was sociable. Oh, and of course a complete bitch instead of her best friend.

As always, though, it’s not the rest of the Mean Girls who get to her the most. It’s her. With her fancy shoes, smug smirk, condescending gaze, designer clothes, and enough jewelry to fund a small country.

Margherita Henry.

The very name is enough to make her want to gag.

Anyone else with that name, and they’d be teased mercilessly. Her parents may have wanted to name her after an Italian cocktail, but the simple fact is that everyone in American high school’s going to think of pizza first. If it had been Margherita Smith, or Margherita Chang, or heaven forbid Margherita Hooker, you can guarantee that they’d need therapy for the PTSD.

But no, it’s Margherita Henry, and so that means everyone’s pointing and laughing at Max Caulfield. Because she slipped on juice and now has gravy on her shirt and cheese fries hanging from her hair.

Ah, high school. Never again in one’s life will people be seem so cruel. The actions might get worse, and the consequences more severe. But when you’re in high school, you live and die by your reputation, and even if it’s only your pride that gets bruised, well, it’s one hell of a bruising.

Kristen and Fernando are across the yard, frozen. They start to get up to move, but, honestly, she doesn’t feel like the typical cycle of positive affirmation in the face of ridicule. Maybe on some other day, in some other school, with some other students, there would be people standing up to the bullies, helping out the geeky introverted hipster. But this is not that day, this is not that school, and these are not those students.

So Max drops her tray, musters what dignity she can, and turns on her heel and walks out the yard. Sure, she might miss a few classes, but she doesn’t have anything to change into anyways, and she’s just about done with the world right now.

Of course, with her luck, this is the exact moment some asshole’s brakes fail, and a car hurtles down the road at fifty miles an hour while she’s trying to cross.

There’s shouting, laughter turning to screams, points changing from mocking to warning, mouths falling open in shock instead of ridicule, a few people starting to run. But no one is close, no one can reach her, and Max stands there shell-shocked like a deer in the literal headlights, frozen for a few seconds before she can think to move. And then it’s already too late, and the unforgiving urban beast is screeching down the road, a panicked face behind the windshield, but the car seems to be grinning as it races towards her, and Max’s hands go upwards in a defensive reflex, as if human skin and bone could withstand the full force of uncontrollable metal.

The world flashes and her head spins, and she wonders if this is what death feels like and if her life is flashing before her eyes.

Her life flashes in rewind, and then suddenly Max is standing in front of the school doors, having just entered the yard, and her tray is suspended in front of her, floating in the air.

For about half a second, before it comes crashing down, splattering gravy all over her shoes.

Laughter rings out for a second time that day, and again Kristen and Fernando start standing up, but Max is far too confused to care about either the taunting or the comfort. She blinks, looks down at her hands, looks up again, gazes at the crossing where she’s sure she just died.

Oh god, is this what the afterlife is? Do you just relive the last moments of your life over and over again? Is this like when Emperor Joker killed Batman over and over again, not letting him die?

But while Max is standing there dumbstruck for a few minutes, and Kristen’s asking her if she’s ok while Fernando sort of half-heartedly tells everyone that they should just go back to their food and leave Max alone, when suddenly a car comes blazing down the road, whizzing past the crossing and continuing for a good mile or so before it tears through a lamppost, toppling it, before it continues going and slams into a dumpster truck, crunching to a halt.

And Max is still alive.

And being still alive, and not having the car about to run her down, she realises that she recognises it, everyone does, and now that she can see Margherita’s face, she sees the horror and terror gripping her fine features, mouth gaping in shock, unbelieving eyes wide.

Because that car belongs to Jason Henry, Margherita’s older brother.

And any vindictive feelings Max harboured for Margherita vanishes as she sees the latter’s face change, shock morphing into fear, then despair. And Margherita’s starting to mouth “No” over and over again, and tears are starting to smear her make-up, eyeshadow running in black rivers over carefully blushed cheeks, and everyone’s either pointing and shouting or frozen in shock and uncertainty, until teachers start pouring out of the building, and then there’s shouts and urgency and 911 emergency, and soon police sirens are wailing while ambulances swarm the area.

And through it all, Max just stands there, forgotten in her gravy-stained shoes, Kristen and Fernando to either side, Kristen just gaping as if she can’t believe what happened, Fernando trembling uncontrollably. Even as they’re corralled back into the school gym and everyone sort of mills around shaking their heads or sitting mutely, Max doesn’t say a word, but neither is she frozen in shock. She sits down on the bleachers, staring at the brown seeping into her trainers, and the only thing she can think of is the screech of tires and shouts, and sunlight gleaming off metal as it rushes first at her and then again past her. She looks down at her hands, and she thinks of Jason Henry, and it could have been her, it could have been _her_. And she feels… she feels…

_“OUT.”_

 

* * *

 

Max fell out of bed, head throbbing from the explosive word that had just rocked threw her skull. Cradling her head, she tries not to whimper as she curls up on the floor of her dorm. Victoria’s right across the hallway, and knowing her she’s probably get a stethoscope pressed up against the door or something, ready to come and provide whatever help she can at the slightest sound of discomfort, eager to please. And with the hammers currently pounding away at her brain right now, Max _really_ wasn’t in the mood to deal with trying-to-play-it-cool-but-ridiculously-overeager Victoria right now.

Maxine’s power was stunning. Her ejection hit Max far harder than any physical headache. There hadn’t even been any fury or desperation at having Max once again dive into her counterpart’s memories. Just irritation at the intrusion, a brief period of terrifying calm, as Maxine gathered her willpower the same way one takes in a deep breath before a shout, and then this sheer forceful _word_ , an order backed by such resolve that it had blasted Max out of Maxine’s head, smashing her across the dimensional gap and slam-dunking her back onto this world, this strange, strange world where Victoria was improbably nice and desperate for Max’s attention, where Nathan was uncomfortably friendly when he wasn’t regarding her with unbridled hatred and a tinge of what Max thought was fear, where the student body loved or feared her in equal measure but respected her either way, where the staff seemed wary except for Mr Jefferson, who was as charming as always… and where Chloe was dead.

The dull emptiness inside Max throbbed again at that thought. Chloe, in her bed, hooked up to the machine that was both her life and her prison. Chloe, crushed and broken not by her own burdens, but the burdens of her family. Chloe, who had looked at Max with such love, as if unaccustomed to such attention. Chloe, whose life was full of what-if and if-only, no matter the timeline.

Chloe, who had looked so peaceful in death as she never had in life.

As always, Max pushed aside that emptiness, and instead clung to the fear that was left in its wake. The fear of what Maxine would do to her Chloe, punk Chloe, with her blue hair and spiked bracelet and bullet necklace. The fear of what Maxine would do to her _world_ , if left unattended.

It was this dread which helped Max take a deep breath, calming herself, willing away the headache. Reaching across the void and plunging into Maxine’s memories was about as appealing as pushing through a razor-wire fence and diving into boiling acid, but Max _had_ to. If she was going to ever beat Maxine, she had to know why she was the way she was, understand what drove this mad, insane girl. At the very least, she’d be able to cram in all the years Maxine had spent experimenting with and learning about and developing her power into a few short hours.

Max took a deep breath. Released it slowly. She sat up, crossing her legs, continuing to take deep breaths to calm her aching head. Adjusted herself to rest comfortably against the wall. She took another breath, held it, then released it. A trick she’d learnt from Maxine, that. Breath control helped her focus her powers, kept her mind steady.

She clenched her hand into a fist, pushing down the pain of an infinite number of Maxes and Maxines and Maxwells and Maximuses, all using that same hand, all clenching or relaxing or releasing or shaking that hand. She focused on the here and now, on the immediate presence of her power and her being, and she splayed her fingers outwards and _pushed_.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Margherita. Ah… How are you doing?”

The other girl looks up at her, and her eyes are dry, any tears evaporated by the anger in her gaze.

“How do you think I’m doing, you stupid bitch? My brother is _dead_ , and now Max _fucking_ Caulfield is over here to play waitress to my pity party. Well, _fuck_ you, Caulfield. I don’t need your pity, I don’t want your company, and the only thing you _can_ do is _fuck off_.”

 _“But that’s wrong,”_ Max wants to say, _“Jason swerved off the road to avoid hitting me, he crashed into the bushes, he was just in crutches for a while.”_ But that’s not what she says, Max never says what she thinks when she relives Maxine’s memories. She autopilots through conversations, skipping through options already said, fast-forwarding through time, afraid of changing anything lest she give birth to another universe with another Max. So instead, she stammers through Maxine’s answer, the words simultaneously alien and familiar.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t what? Didn’t mean to come over here, when I’m a fucking mess, and give your fake pity, with your programmed comforts? ‘I know how you feel’, ‘Stay strong’, ‘He wouldn’t want this for you’, ‘You have my condolences’. What the fuck even _is_ a condolence?”

“I don’t-”

“Just _go away_ , Caulfield. Just fucking _go_. Just leave me _alone_. Without my brother… that’s all I’ve got now. Alone.”

Tears are starting to spring up in her eyes now, tears leaking through Margherita’s fake eyelashes. Angrily, she dashes them away, but all that does is smudge her eyeliner.

“I’m sorry, Margherita. I am so, so sorry. If there’s anything I can do...”

Margherita laughs bitterly at that, a noise that’s more choking sorrow than angry mirth. “Outside of having him come back to life and walking up to me and saying ‘Hey, Maggie, everything’s ok, I’m here now’? You can just go fuck yourself, Caulfield. And leave me alone.”

 _“I could do it,”_ Max thinks. _“I could go back. Make sure it never happens. Make it so he’s alive.”_ She’d been fiddling with her power. She’d been getting better with it. She’d started figuring out what it could do.

_“But what if saving him kills me?”_

And Max wants to do it, she _knows_ that she survives, that Jason survives, that Margherita will keep on being her usual bitchy self, that she will never know this terrible loss. But other Max isn’t sure, she’s scared, she’s frightened, she sees the car speeding towards her, and she lets out the breath she’d inhaled in preparation for a huge time leap. Instead, she flicks her wrist a little, and her vision blurs for a second before clearing, and now Margherita is looking up at her with anger in her eyes.

“What is it, Caulfield? Come to gloat? Tell me I got my karmic punishment?”

And oh, Max _wants_ to, she wants to say it so much, she remembers the sting of the laughter and the pointing. But she doesn’t. She holds her tongue, the barbs drifting away into nothingness. Instead, she sits down next to Margherita, ignoring the heat of Margherita’s glare. _“It’s ok if she’s a little ungrateful, she just went through a huge loss.”_

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Max begins, and Margherita scoffs at that.

“Yeah, you can’t. So you can fuck off now.”

Max persists, ignoring the temptation to do so and leave this bitter, selfish person to her sorrows.

“But I do know what it feels like to be alone. To feel lost, and isolated. To feel like no one understands. And while I don’t think I can understand loss on this scale… I do know that sometimes, when you say you want to be alone, it’s actually the last thing you want.”

Max reaches out and gently places her hand atop Margherita’s knee.

“Let me be here, Margherita. I won’t say anything. I won’t make a noise. Just… don’t force yourself to be alone. There are other people here who care for you. And while we’ll never replace Jason… We can still be here for you, Maggie.”

And at that, Margherita’s angry façade drops, and she’s clinging to Max, holding her tight, and she’s sobbing. It’s not gentle, small tears, it’s full-blown wailing, with huge breaths in between each burst of tears, and Max just wraps her arms around the other girl, ignoring the tears and make-up staining her shoulder, and thinks _“This. This is good. This helps. Even if I can’t bring back her brother… I can at least do this. I can at least make sure I say the right things. Make people feel better. This I can do.”_

_“Having fun? Good. Now **leave**.”_

 

* * *

 

_BANG!_

Max yelped in pain, not just from the pain flaring in her arm as Maxine twisted hard across dimensions to wrench the power from Max’s grasp, but also from where her forehead connected with the edge of her desk as she slammed her head forward after once again being kicked out of Maxine’s mind. The resounding thud echoed louder as the motion caused her desk to rock backwards, rattling the windows.

For normal neighbours, this was something to be ignored, and the appropriate response was to turn over in bed and mutter angrily about annoying sleepless hipsters. For Victoria Chase, this meant leaping out of bed, slamming open your door, and dashing across the hallway so fast that you were knocking on your neighbour’s door before your own had enough time to swing back into place.

“Maxine? Are you okay? I heard something slam. It sounded like it hurt. Do you need help?”

Max pushed away from the desk, rubbing her forehead and wincing at the sting in response.

“Everything’s fine, Victoria. I just slipped. Go back to bed.”

A perfectly acceptable response even when croaked in obvious agony, in Max’s opinion, but Victoria wasn’t having any of that.

“Come on, open this door Maxine. You’re obviously not feeling well. I can help. Let me in.”

And something about the way she says those last three words triggers something in Max, an odd form of reverse déjà vu. Because she remembers that tone, she _knows_ that tone. Her voice had sounded the same, on the roof, with rain pouring down, and Kate standing across from her, feet on the very edge.

Maybe there was more to Maxine than it seemed. Maybe there was more to Victoria.

Max placed a hand on the edge of her desk (not her desk, _Maxine’s_ desk). Pushing herself to her feet, she tottered on unsteady legs to the door. She tossed a hand through her hair to try and get it in some form of order, and once again is startled by how silky smooth it feels. Maxine’s designer-brand shampoo (‘borrowed’ from Taylor) worked wonders. Max sniffs the ends of her hair, and the unfamiliar scent of cinnamon and honey floods her nose. Yet another way of reminding her that this body wasn’t hers.

Max opened the door.

“Hey Maxine,” Victoria said. “Can I come- oh.”

And Victoria’s face was suddenly flushed, and her eyes darted lower before flying back upwards to land resolutely on Max’s face. And Max was suddenly uncomfortably aware of she wore only an old T-shirt and panties, and that was completely braless.

Weird. She’d never felt self-conscious around Chloe. She’d felt safe, secure, happy. But with Victoria, she was painfully self-aware.

At least, Max was. Maxine’s body, on the other hand, apparently felt horny.

Max crossed her legs ( _Maxine’s_ legs) uncomfortably, trying to pass it off as natural by leaning against the door. Victoria clearly wasn’t buying it, but to her credit, aside from the slight pink tinging her cheeks, she was doing an admirable job of ignoring the sexual tension charging the air.

“I was just wondering if I could come in. To help. Because it sounded like you were banging something. Banged against something. _Crashed_ into something.”

An admirable job, not a perfect job.

“Sure, come in,” Max said, and instantly felt like the world’s biggest moron. _“Sure, come in, you can stay in my room at 1am. Oh no, don’t worry, you can sleep in my bed, I’m not using it right now. I’m too busy trying to commune with my murderous, insane alternate self. Want some coffee?”_

Victoria beamed, and stepped in, not entirely able to hide the spring in her step. She looked around the room with a slightly awed expression that clearly showed that she (or anyone) wasn’t typically allowed inside Maxine’s room.

And it _was_ an impressive room. Clearly, Maxine didn’t believe in frugality or minimalism. Almost every square inch of space on the walls was covered, be it by a poster or a photo. A guitar sat haphazardly on the sofa, its strings dangling loosely across the neck, as if Maxine had been stringing it and had gotten bored halfway. The desk bore multiple stacks of paper, and the ravaged remains of a hard drive. Max had no clue what any of the bits and pieces strewn across the desk’s surface was, but she guessed that it was an abandoned effort to do… something with her computer. It could join the overturned wireless speakers stacked up on a shelf in the ‘unfinished and/or forgotten projects’ department. Clearly Maxine had commitment issues with anything beyond photography.

But dear god, her photos _were_ amazing. Incredible angles, wonderful lighting, covering an enormous range from the abstract to human portraits to wildlife, with an excellent eye for colour and contrast as well as harmony and unity. And with her work on display on every surface in the room, it was almost enough to make Max forget that Maxine was a sociopathic monster who delighted in tearing people down to see what made them tick. Almost.

What did make Max’s mind go completely blank, however, was having Victoria turn around and give her the most impossibly sexy smirk. Not her usual “I’m so much more superior, hipster trash” smirk. This was a coy “come hither and ravish me” smirk. And dear god, was Maxine’s body responding.

“So,” Victoria said.

“So,” Max repeated dumbly. She resisted the urge to slap herself. She wasn’t entirely certain that urge was hers.

“It’s 1am, we’re in your room, I’m in my pyjamas, you’re already half-undressed. Is this going where I think it’s going?”

“Where do you think it’s going?” The words, which should feel suave and smooth in this mouth, came out uncertain and unbelievably lame. This time Max was definitely sure that the urge to slap herself was coming from Maxine’s body.

Victoria laughed, and it felt unfair that a person could do something that seductively. It wasn’t girlish giggles or shy chuckles, no, of course, with Victoria it had to be all low purrs and fluttering eyelashes. Victoria slipped the door shut with the tip of her foot, leg impossibly long as it swung in a crescent. Max swallowed a whimper that was very much her own.

As Victoria advanced slowly, eyelids low, biting her lower lip just slightly, Max fought a brief but intense war as she wanted to back away, but her body was urging her to go forward. She compromised by making an odd jitter standing still.

She could practically feel the ghost of Maxine’s presence die from embarrassment.

“Just relax,” Victoria said as she closed the distance between them, so softly that her voice was a gentle brush of air grazing Max’s cheek. “Relax. For once. Just… let yourself go. Let me in. It’ll be fine.”

And when she leaned in and kissed the underside of Max’s jaw, body pressing against her own, Max inhaled a sharp breath while her brain exhaled all rational thought. Max can feel Victoria’s lips smile.

“When’s the last time someone made you feel like this?” Victoria asked, her breath ghosting across Max’s skin, tickling her throat with the promise of contact.

 _“Never”_ Max wanted to say.

 _“Two days ago with Zachary.”_ Maxine’s body ruminated.

And oh god, but now Victoria’s hand was slipping lower, and it’s pressing against Max’s thigh, and she might just about die.

“It’s ok,” Victoria murmured, and her hand was slipping, sliding, higher and higher, following the curve of Max’s leg, inching toward that junction. “Just breathe. Relax. Let go. You don’t have to hold yourself together. Not with me. I can catch you. I can take care of you.”

_“You can take care of me all you want.”_

The thought was parentless, Max unsure where it came from. Nevertheless, it was quickly banished when Victoria’s fingers pressed and found wetness. Max moaned at the contact. And god, Max could _feel_ Victoria’s lips smiling, not smirking, smiling, a genuine expression of joy, having finally cracked Maxine’s armour, found her way inside.

“When’s the last time you’ve felt this safe?” the shade of a voice whispered against Max’s joy, each word accompanied by a slight flick of tongue.

 _“When I was with Chloe,”_ Max thought, and the thought of Chloe, of Chloe’s lips, the taste of Chloe’s mouth from that brief second of contact, it had her groaning even louder.

 _“Umm…”_ thought Maxine’s body.

And now Victoria’s fingers were edging the panties to one side, and _oh god_.

Max let out a huff of desperate air as those long, long fingers stroked at slick skin, thumb adventuring upwards in a gentle trail towards that bundle of nerves. Victoria kissed her cheek, the action gentle, sweet… caring.

“You don’t have to hold it in,” Victoria whispered. And there was something about her voice, a desperation, a need that reached Max beyond the haze of lust. A cry for attention, a cry for love. “I know that you always have to hide as well. I _know_. And I just want to show you, you don’t have to hide, either.” And Max opened her eyes to look at Victoria, and she was shocked by the huge well of emotion staring back at her. Victoria’s eyes were enormous, twin pools of desperation and… was that?

“Please. Let me do this. You’ve done so much for me, showed me so much. Let me do the same thing for you. You don’t have to hide with me. You can show me everything. Please.”

Could that emotion be?

“You can be _yourself_.”

It was.

 _“I think I could actually learn to love you,”_ Max thought.

 _“Oh god don’t stop touching me don’t you dare.”_ Maxine’s body thought.

 _“I want to take a picture,”_ Maxine thought.

 

If ever there was a way to kill arousal, it was that extra voice in her head.

Max wrenched away from Victoria with a gasp, panting heavily as she gasped for air. The pain… the pain wasn’t there. The pain that normally accompanied these intertemporal clashes. Max flexed her hand, and yes, the power was still there, it was still in her grasp. But that interference, all those other Maxes pulling from every dimension… where were they? Where had it gone?

“I’m sorry!” Victoria’s face sounded like it was coming from very, very far away. How could that be, when she’d been so close only a moment before? “I didn’t mean- Did I do something that- I’m so, so sorry.”

 _“Very apologetic, this one.”_ Maxine mused, unaffected by the emotional turmoil from the other presences. _“Very easy to play, too. So eager for unconditional love. Silly girl. All love has conditions. There’s always limits. Always rules. Always restrictions. But our Victoria was so desperate for a friend who’d accept her no matter what, who cared about the woman behind the façade, who believed that she was talented and gifted and confident, who **believed** in her. Who **loved** her. Not unlike that Chloe of yours, if you really think about it.”_

Maxine. Maxine was in her head. Maxine was _talking_ to her **_in her head_**.

_“Actually, that’s my head you’re using. And I’d much rather you kept it in good condition. Smashing it all over the place, exposing it to all those dimensions, it’s a wonder you haven’t gone crazy and splattered my brains all over the floor.”_

Max was still reeling. Victoria was saying something, but her words were fading, all sound disappearing.

_“Oh, that’s right, I should mention. Since you were so curious when the last time I felt ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ was, I decided to share it with you. Because I’m nice like that. Unfortunately, while you’re in my memories, somebody has to take over here. Can’t have Vicki get too upset by rejection, that would ruin the plan. Absolute betrayal needs more than a shitty Polaroid to do it justice. Just go have fun in memory lane. I’ll take care of this. Should take just a few rewinds to make sure everything’s in order.”_

Max had just managed to grasp her power when Maxine’s memories washed over her like a wave, drowning her under a wash of image, sound and emotion.

 

* * *

 

Max’s eyes flutter open. She smiles when the first thing she sees is Maggie’s peaceful face. Free of make-up, free of stress, free of thought, she just looks so… peaceful. Beautiful.

Max rolls to the side, slipping her hand out from under the blankets to seize her camera from the bedside table. Gently, trying not to wake her girlfriend, Max props herself up on an elbow to get that perfect angle. Smiling, she snaps the shot, marvelling in just how beautiful Maggie was.

Maggie stirs at the flash, and then lets out a small groan at the printing noise. She looks up bleary-eyed at Max as the latter gives the picture a light shake. “Max?”

Max beams at her. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Maggie smiles sleepily. “Morning.” Her brow furrows as she frowns. “Did you take a picture of me while I was sleeping?”

Disapproval. Crap. Max flicks her wrist.

 

This time, she leans in and plants a kiss on Maggie’s nose. This stirs the other girl, who blinks blearily at Max as she awakens. “Max?”

Max beams at her for a second time. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Maggie smiles sleepily, as Max knew she would. “Morning.” She yawns cutely, nose crinkling as her face scrunches up. “How long were you up? You should’ve woken me.”

Max grins. “Not too long. Besides, I like watching you sleep. You’re so peaceful. And beautiful. Well, you’re always beautiful.”

Maggie elbows Max. “Meaning that I don’t always look peaceful?”

Startled, Max readies a rewind, but she catches sight of the playful twinkle in Maggie’s eyes and realises she’s just teasing. With a quiet sigh of relief, she releases her talent. Instead, she plays along, groaning in mock agony and clutching at her side. “Sometimes you’re too violent for me. I’m not sure I can handle you. You’re like a wild tiger.”

Maggie cocks an eyebrow at that. “You weren’t complaining about how wild I am last night.”

Max flushes at that. She searches for a witty retort and comes up blank. “That’s- I mean- Uh-”

Maggie laughs at that, running her hands through her hair to check for knots. “Relax, nerd. You don’t have to get all scared of sex. You were fine.” She frowns when her fingers catch a knot.

Great. Now you look like a virgin nerd who’s too lame to catch sex jokes. Outstanding. Time for a rewind.

“I’m not sure I can handle you. You’re like a wild tiger.”

Maggie cocks an eyebrow. “You weren’t complaining about how wild I am last night.”

Crap. Crap. Crap. She rewound but forgot to prepare a clever comeback. Time to improvise.

“I wasn’t really in a position to complain. About how wild you are. Last night.”

… You absolute moron.

Max throws an arm across her face in a futile attempt to how lame she was while she wracked her brains for an appropriate quip. Maggie giggles at that, but Max prefers her girlfriend be wowed by how amazingly witty she was rather than at how adorably awkward she could be. This time, this time she’ll get it right.

 

“You call that wild? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“What?”

 

“You might be a tiger, but I’m like a circus ringleader. _Wha-chow_!”

“I don’t think I’m ready for whips. Or circuses.”

That wasn’t what-

 

“That was wild? What can I expect tomorrow night then?”

“Criticise my performance like that, and maybe there won’t be a next time.”

“That wasn’t what I meant-”

“Hey, relax, I was just joki-”

 

“I honestly don’t think that I can handle a tiger. Wild isn’t my thing.”

“Are you breaking up with me after one night? Wow.”

OH GOD NO PLEASE NOT THAT-

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Maggie leans in and places a hand on Max’s shoulder. “You’re looking a little pale. And dizzy. You feeling alright?”

Max gives Maggie a weak smile. While she’d been getting better with her talent, too many rewinds could still cause a bit of dizziness. At least she wasn’t bleeding everywhere anymore. That had been awful. Not as awful as her attempts at banter, though. Apparently, nothing can top that.

“I’m okay, Maggie. I guess last night took a bit more out of me than I thought. It was really fun, though. And really good. And nice. And I’m running out of positive adjectives.”

Maggie laughs at that, and Max makes a mental note. _“If clever quips are abysmal failure, can still be charming and cool with self-deprecating humour.”_

Maggie sits up and begins running her hands through her hair. Max quickly gets off the bed and snatches up a hairbrush from the dresser. She sits behind Maggie and begins combing through her hair, instantly finding the knot. She pulls it loose with some quick, gentle strokes, then revels in the feeling of accomplishment in being a good girlfriend. She wonders if she’s allowed to high-five herself without it being weird.

“What are you thinking about?” Maggie asks over her shoulder.

Max momentarily freezes. There’s no way she’s going to say that she wanted to high-five herself. That is the ultimate of loser territory. She grasps around mentally for a few moments before latching onto the first thing she can think of.

“I was thinking about home. Arcadia Bay.”

“Oh right, you’re from Oregon. Anything you miss in particular?”

Max thinks about it, combing gently. Blonde hair and bright smiles flash in her memory.

“I guess I miss Chloe the most.”

“Chloe?” There’s a note of something unidentifiable in Maggie’s voice. Max considers rewinding, but the situation is still fixable.

“My best friend. Well, my best friend when I was a kid. God, we were inseparable. We used to spend hours pretending we were pirates, and that the sofa was our pirate ship.” Max laughs a little at the memory. “I hope she’s doing well.”

“Sounds like you two very close.”

Yup, that’s definitely a tinge of jealousy. In a different situation, this might have been time for the talent panic button, but now it just makes Max laugh a little.

“Don’t worry, you.” She says, putting the brush to the side so she can nuzzle into Maggie’s back. “We haven’t stayed in touch too much since I moved. Letters and emails, every now and then, but nothing too substantial. Besides, anything that might have been died when I left Arcadia Bay.”

Maggie laughs a little nervously. “Sorry. I can understand if I’m being a little pushy. It’s just that… Well, you’re not just my girlfriend.” Max tries not to puff up like a bullfrog at that. “You’re my best friend as well. Nobody knows me like you do. And, even after everything I did to you…”

“Hey, that’s in the past,” Max says evenly, crushing old resentments beneath the mountain of love and affection and friendship provided in the recent months.

Maggie shakes her head. “No. It was wrong of me. And I can’t believe what it took me to realise it. What I’ve been missing. The most wonderful girlfriend someone could ever have. So, I guess I get a little possessive when I think about losing you to someone else.”

Max laughs at that. “Oh, a little possessiveness never hurt anyone. Besides, you don’t have to worry too much. You have me, you have your family, you have your friends-”

But Maggie’s not smiling anymore.

“Max, what friends? Those girls from school? Half of them don’t even like me, and the other half don’t like that I’m dating you. The guys from the football team? Most of them just want into my pants, and the others don’t get why I’m doing my whole Anti-Bullying Campaign. Everyone else on campus still looks at me and sees miss prissy rich bitch, and with good reason. Family? Mom’s always out with her tennis club or her bridge friends, and Dad’s always away on business. The only person I really had before you was Jason, and when I think about what happened to him-”

Bad topic, bad topic, bad topic, panic button.

 

“So, I guess I get a little possessive when I think about losing you to someone else.”

Max shuffles around Maggie on her knees so that she can plop down in front of her. She clasps her girlfriend’s hands in both of hers.

“Listen to me, Margherita Josephine Henry. Whatever there might have been between me and Chloe is long gone. There’s like, no chance I’ll even see her again. It’s not like I’m planning to go back to Arcadia Bay any time soon anyway. Why would I? Everything, and everyone, I could have possibly wanted is right here in Seattle.”

And then Max kisses Maggie just as the other girl’s eyes start to shine with joyful tears, timing it perfectly to make this a magic moment worthy of photographing. When their lips part, they embrace, and Maggie is making these adorable little snuffling noises as she hugs Max close.

Max mentally does high five herself this time. She is getting _hella_ good at sincerity.

 

* * *

 

Max surfaced from Maxine’s memories to find herself in the most unexpected position ever: spooning Victoria Chase.

To her credit, she responded quite well, in her opinion. She only freaked out a _tiny_ bit. She didn’t even bite Victoria by accident. So, she jostled her a little, but Victoria just mumbled a bit and went back to sleeping, so it wasn’t that bad.

A far less welcome presence, of course, was Maxine.

_“Welcome back.”_

Max blinked, trying to figure out where she was. A quick glance around confirmed that she was still in Maxine’s room, in Maxine’s world, in Maxine’s body. Also, she was naked, and still spooning Victoria Chase.

_“Yeah, yeah, get used to it. If you’re going to be in my body and memories, this is going to be happening quite a bit to you.”_

_“How did you even do that?”_ Max thought furiously, trying not to move too much. It was harder than it sounded. Righteous anger was a lot harder when you couldn’t move. _“How can you pull me into your memories? How did you cut me off from my power? If you’re here, and I’m here, **who’s in my body?** ”_

 _“So many questions,”_ Anyone else, that phrase would be amused and condescending. With Maxine, she just sounded bored. Indeed, she listed off her answer the same way one might list a grocery list. _“I’ve been using this gift for three years. You’ve been using it for three days. Obviously, I know more about it, and I can learn how to use new abilities a lot quicker than you can. Only had to be exposed to the multiverse once to learn how to cross it, didn’t I? Meanwhile, you’re still stumbling around here in this boring old place. Not even sure what you can even do here anymore. I think I did just about everything there was to do in this universe. Besides break Chase’s heart, of course. That’s still going to happen. Hell, might even make you do it. That sounds way more interesting than whatever Prescott could come up with. As for your body… I dunno, I just sort of left it. Do you think the timelines continue even when we’re not there? That’s an interesting experiment. Wish I could monitor it.”_

Max tried not to scream. Or punch something. Or move.

_“You left my body, potentially to rot, and you think it’ll be an interesting **experiment**?”_

_“Oh, shut up and relax. Enjoy the moment. You should’ve been here, it was mildly amusing to soothe Chase. She’s been trying so hard to pretend it’s nothing but sex between us, but god if she isn’t desperate. Not sure what you were doing, but she now seems to think I’m in love with her. Well, whatever makes the final product more genuine, I suppose. What’s that called? Method acting? Enforced acting? There’s a name for it…”_

_“My **body**. Send me back to it, **now**.”_

_“You’re still going on about that? God, you’re whiny. Look, even if I could, I wouldn’t. The multiverse is just way too interesting. What am I supposed to do if I shuffle you back, hmm? Go back to photographing dead girls with Nuthill Prescock and Mr Fuckerson? Oh no, no, this is far more entertaining. Really, I owe this mostly to you, Max. Before you, I was just dying of boredom. Now, though? Now I have entire dimensions to play with. Trying to roleplay you was interesting, by the way. Trying to figure out how your powers worked, what I could and couldn’t do, that was a chore, but figuring out how to pretend to be you? That was nothing if not entertaining. Oh, if you ever do get back home, you might notice a few things have changed. Positive responses, the idea of SuperMax the Blackwell Hero, a slightly smitten Chloe… It’s really weird seeing her walk, by the way. I wonder what it would take to get her back in a wheelchair-”_

_“Did it hurt?”_ Max thought, cutting off Maxine before she could continue. Her rage had boiled over and was now cooling into a cool, cold fury. _“I didn’t understand why our timelines changed so much, not until now. You got the power a little early, yeah, but that doesn’t explain why you’re such a psycho. This, though. This explains a lot more.”_

 _“What are you talking about?”_ And Maxine, the complete sociopath she was, she’d forgotten what it was like, she genuinely didn’t know what Max was talking about. She couldn’t even remember what it was like to have emotions beyond satisfaction, irritation and boredom. These were her memories Max had been trailing through, and somehow Max understood Maxine better than she herself did.

 _“Did it hurt?”_ Max pressed, pushing back Maxine. There’s doubt, doubt planted by curiosity, Maxine uncertain what Max was talking about. It’s only a little, but it’s giving her wiggle room, space to push back against Maxine’s dominating willpower.

_“Did it hurt when Margherita Henry died?”_

 

** To Be Continued **

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

A/N: Well, Life is Strange is now over. On the upside, this fic is still continuing. Hope you guys enjoy. Leave comments, and check me out on Tumblr if you guys get the time.

 

Warning: spoilers for Life is Strang, graphic character death, emotional manipulation, light sex, referenced abuse, referenced assault, referenced rape.

Listening to:    Kids Will Be Skeletons by Mogwai

                        Bullets by Archive

 

* * *

 

 

Max marvels at the feeling of Maggie’s hand in her own. It’s surprising how well they fit. Fingers between fingers, thumbs tracing over knuckles, clasped together. Not tight, not possessive. Just relaxed, one in the other. A perfect fit. Like Lego blocks.

Max scrunches her nose at that thought. Right. Lego? Not appropriate poetry.

A hermit crab and its rock? Nope.

A pane in a window? Even worse.

A sausage in a hot dog bun? Good Lord, if Freud could hear her thoughts right now…

“You’re doing it again,” a voice interrupts, along with a playful nudge against her hip.

Max looks to her side, startled. Maggie smiles back at her, eyes twinkling with good-natured mischief. She swings their clasped hands against Max’s hip again.

“Doing what?” Max asks, trying to pretend she hadn’t completely zoned out of the conversation. Hopefully she hadn’t missed anything important. She readies a rewind, just in case.

“That face you get when you’re thinking, and then realise that you’re bad at thinking,” Maggie teases. “It’s like watching a kettle boil over. Soon you’ll be going red in the face with embarrassment and, whoops, there we go.”

Max tries to force the flush from her cheeks. It’s as effective as squeezing sunshine out of laundry.

“Relax, Miss Maroon, it’s adorable. Your face is like a plasma screen broadcasting the emotion of the day. Looks like we’re going for generally sunny, with a splash of embarrassment and some showers in the evening.”

“So what, you think I could have a future as a weatherman? ‘Good morning Seattle, Max here, with today’s Caultography!’” Max flashes her best cheesy grin to accompany the pun.

The grin fragments and collapses in on itself under the raised eyebrow of Maggie, because goddamn, but does that girl have a judgemental eyebrow. Even after a solid two months of dating, that eyebrow will never forgive Max for her lame attempts at word-based comedy. It’s the Eyebrow of Unimpressible-ness.

“Ok, first off, cartography has little to nothing to do with weather. Second off, if you ever make a joke as lame as that ever again, you’re eternally cursed to wear the ‘I Think My Word Play is Punny’ t-shirt for the rest of your life.”

“Only if you wear the ‘Have You Seen My Loser’ shirt as well,” Max counters, knocking hips with Maggie as they walk down the boulevard. Overhead, a seagull flaps by lazily, white feathers flashing gold in the afternoon sun. “I’ll even wear the ‘Property of Mags’ cap.”

“God, I thought we agreed to never mention that cap ever again,” Maggie groans. “You weren’t even supposed to keep it, I only bought it because I thought it would be a funny joke.”

“Well, that’s what you happen when you mark your property; once it’s tagged, there’s no going back.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a colossal nerd? Because you’re a colossal nerd.”

“And you’re a drama queen, but we make it work somehow,” Max says with a smile. She swings their connected hands happily as well, not minding the extra warmth pressed against her palm. Even in the dry-baked sun of summer, Max couldn’t imagine giving up that feel of Maggie’s hand in hers. A little extra sweat was a small price to pay, they’d both agreed. Max was sure of it. She’d checked. Four times. Across three rewinds.

 They walk in peaceful, companionable quiet, listening to the murmur of the tide as it laps against the shore, long tongues of water licking against the pier. The seagulls caw at one another, and squawk in triumphant cheering when one of their fellows dives down into the waves. Max inserts the “Mine! Mine!” squabble and smiles at the thought.

“So, what were you thinking about? When you decided to space out,” Maggie asks as she puffs aside a strand of hair off her nose.

“I was thinking about us, and how perfect this is, and how I can’t come up with a good metaphor describing how perfect this is,” Max replies honestly. Because it’s true, and this moment is wonderful, and she wants Maggie to know that there is still joy in the world.

The rewind is in her palm, just in case.

“Oh?” Maggie grins. “Surely you can come up with something. An esteemed poet like you has to know something.”

“How am I a poet?” Max protests with a laugh. “Have you _seen_ the grade I got for my English essay?”

“Photography’s like, visual poetry,” Maggie says. “It’s sort of the same idea, isn’t it? Find out the best way to capture a moment? It’s just that poets use words, while you use pictures. Explain to me how you’d take a picture of this moment, to remember how perfect it is.”

“Hmm,” Max ponders. “It would have to be a landscape shot, to make sure we can see as much of the pier as possible. Take the shot facing away from the sunlight, so the glare doesn’t block out any features, but at a low angle, so that you can see the soft glow of warmth. Make sure to keep the subject in the centre of the frame, and get a close-up on that smile.”

“Subject, huh? I feel like a lab specimen.” And Maggie does this thing where she waggles her eyebrows and Max is sort of falling in love all over again. Sixteen and smitten, what a world.

“Maybe subject’s not the right word. What would you prefer? The focus? The centre? The star?”

“How about, ‘the absolutely totally awesome gravitating core of my universe’?” Maggie says cheekily with a wink.

Max laughs at that. “No way am I saying that. I don’t think I can even remember what you said. The total awesome gravity core of my universe? No way am I giving you an ego trip.”

“And here I was all ready to sate my overwhelming need for vanity. Alas, my daily dose of narcissism has been withheld from me. Catch me, I feel faint.”

“All right, Lady Smartass, no need to turn up the sarcasm. Come on,” Max tugs Maggie off the boulevard into a coffee shop set up to look over the pier. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

 

* * *

 

 

Max gasped awake to the sounds of the newborn day. Fingers of light creeped against the window and the cold of the morning air ghosted against the glass. Dawn’s breath fogged the pane, and dawn’s tears dripped down leaves in fat dew droplets.

_“Welcome back,”_ Maxine drawled. Her tone was casual, sardonic. As Max blinked blearily, she slipped off the bed and crouched on all fours, head spinning. _“Careful there. Something I found out, jumping back and forth across realities?_ Major _vertigo. Here, let me help.”_

Max gasped as she jerked upright into a kneeling position. Muscles clenched and bunched and relaxed independently of Max’s desires. Even as her mind screamed for respite, her body lurched up and tottered over to the desk. Each step was uncertain, and Max could feel her sinews grinding in protest.

_“Whoops, sorry. Never tried doing this while you were here at the same time. It’s a little trickier when you have two minds trying to use the same body.”_

_“How are you doing this?”_ Max groaned as she was tugged forwards. It was an alien, terrifying feeling. Even in this body, her unwilling habitat, Max had been able to make Maxine’s body work. It hadn’t been comfortable (it had been like trying to walk with your right shoe on your left foot and vice versa), but she’d managed it. Now, though, it was like Max was trapped inside a suit, a skin-tight prison with strings at every joint, pulling and tugging her this way and that. If movement had been clumsy and uncomfortable before, it was excruciating now.

_“Oh, stop whining. Just let me do this,”_ Maxine grumbled as she managed to steer her body into her chair. She paused as she lined herself up against the seat. Max could imagine Maxine peering into the review mirror, tongue between her teeth as she backed it up. Then, all tension was cut loose.

Maxine’s body flopped into the seat with all the grace of a gasping fish.

Max breathed a sigh of relief as the puppeteer’s strings relaxed.

_“This would go a lot better if you’d just surrender control to me,”_ Maxine huffed. _“Just lie back and think of England.”_

_“You took one body from me. There’s no way I’m letting you take two.”_ Max shot back.

Maxine shrugged, and it took all of Max’s concentration to make sure that her body’s shoulders remained still. It was a frighteningly elucidating moment.

_“Whatever. I’m just here to check in on what you’ve been up to. I’ve had quite the busy night, thanks to you. Not that I’m complaining, mind. Chase with one body, Price with the other, it’s almost enough to make you feel alive. I wish I could take a picture in my brain. That moment where Price’s face changes into Chase’s, with both eyes seeing different things…_ God _I wish there was some way I could keep that image.”_

_“No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you even_ dare _”_ Max spat. Bad enough what Maxine was doing to Victoria; the idea of her smiling at Chloe with _Max’s_ mouth, hugging her with _Max’s_ arms, lying and manipulating and twisting with _Max’s_ voice… Emotion blazed inside Max. The heat of her hatred burned through the pain and a burst of clarity opened in Max’s mind. For a second, she could feel Maxine’s grip loosening, and she was aware of a thousand Max’s across space and time, reaching out to one another, the spiralling vortex of time in their palms dragging them together.

Maxine’s mind drew back as if stung. For a moment, the endless wave of bored, sadistic pessimism broke against the cliffs of Max’s anger. It wasn’t fear (Max didn’t even know if Maxine was capable of even _feeling_ fear at this point), but the charmingly cheerful façade cracked and the dark ugliness underneath shrivelled back.

And in that moment of Maxine’s weakness, Max drew in from that pool of time and picked apart a million memories. She combed through minds and remembrances, fingers clinging to Margherita Henry and dragging her out of the collective consciousness of Max. The memories clung to each other like webs.

And Max understood.

 

_“How could you?”_ she raged, and her fury burnt Maxine’s fingers as her manic twin tried to tighten her grip. Maxine hissed and her hand flew back across universes. _“How could you do this?”_

_“What are you even talking about?”_ Maxine complained. There was a throb of strain, but the feeling was alien. It was like feeling the thump of falling body through the soles of your feet. An awareness of pain, one that you can feel, but which you knew didn’t belong to you. And Max knew how to push this advantage.

_“You loved her! You confessed it! You promised!”_ Max accused. She grabbed onto her anger, her righteous fury, and surfed that fury across the metaphysical divide. And Maxine, for once, for the first time, she withdrew from Max’s awareness. Startled, then fascinated, then irritated. Still no fear. The bitch probably didn’t even feel fear anymore. But there was a wariness, a fear of being burned.

_“What are you even talking about?”_ Maxine demanded, confused and irritated at her confusion. She didn’t like not knowing, she hated it, she hated anything that made her feel like she didn’t have absolute control.

And it would have been easy, so easy to push this, to hold it, to use this advantage to get a better grip and seize Maxine. But Max was full of so much horror, so much anger, that she couldn’t just let this pass. Manipulation and machinations were Maxine’s territory; Max preferred to deal with actual human emotion.

_“You don’t remember. You don’t even remember. It’s fine, though. Because I can_ make _you remember.”_

And this time Max pushed, gathered time in a grey-red cyclone, and she _pushed_ , and the vortex spun across the bridge linking the two same but different girls. And Max could feel it, not just Maxine’s body, but her own body, in another world, her _real_ world. And time pressed into Maxine’s empty, cold mind, and dragged memories to the surface, memories long-buried and forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

Life is fragile. Max knows this. She saw life flicker and fail in the apathetic face of physics, the law of momentum carrying steel into and then through the body of Jason Henry. It poured out in a torrent of red and splattered against the concrete. Max remembers this, and whatever guilt she might feel is countered by the knowing that it could have been her life that puddled the ground and splashed the car.

It isn’t survivor’s guilt; it isn’t uncertainty about the possibility; it is _knowledge_. Fact. Max has the ability to turn back time; she knows the future like no others do.

This knowledge is what makes her special: it is unique. To die would be to rob humanity of a tool unlike any other. Already, over a few months, Max has done more than anyone else ever could have. She can change the future: no metaphorically, not hypothetically, but literally. She can protect dignity, provide comfort, save lives.

But she doesn’t do this selfishly; she hasn’t used her power to benefit only herself. She knows that her life has been bought with James Henry’s, so she will honour his sacrifice by doing what she knows he would have wanted: keeping his sister happy. Keeping her loved.

Never did she think that she would have to measure up her life’s worth against Margherita Henry’s.

 

Max’s hand pulses, power spinning outwards from her palm into the threads of time. Each spiral weaves into the fabric of reality and seizes it. With nowhere to move and flow, time halts. It’s a trick she learnt a month ago when she needed to pull Derek Lassiter out of the way of a falling tree. It hadn’t been intentional, but Max had learnt how to do it intentionally. She’d experimented, imagined, learnt.

And now she was seeing what that knowledge had brought.

Max takes her time. If there’s one thing she has an infinite supply of now, it’s time. She observes every detail, every shard, every fragment, every inch. She can hold time indefinitely, if she has to. It hurts, but pain of holding reality still is nothing compared to the pain of death… or the pain of loss.

Maggie’s hand is hard in her own. Unable to shift reality without fear of breaking the magic which froze time, Max cannot feel another’s flesh move, yield, adjust, mould around her own. And without that accommodation, that acquiescence, Maggie’s hand is stiff and lifeless. A poor-fitting glove clasped in Max’s own, power bleeding through the gaps between their fingers.

Max wishes their hands still fit. It would have made this decision easier.

 

In front of her, Max is witnessing a silent disaster. Lightning storms are not uncommon in Seattle, but one of this magnitude and this suddenness is definitely unnatural. A pure streak of energy is but a few feet away from where Max and Maggie are standing. The explosion of fire and electricity is caught mid-explosion, and it looks like a star bursting. Next to them, a luxury sailboat is sinking, a hole punched through its fibreglass hull by the fury of the storm. Fire is catching on the spilt oil floating on the surface of the water. On their other side, a lifeguard is falling into the water, hands raised as he desperately tries to grab on to the pier. Beneath him are the jagged remains of a cruise liner. Max knows that no matter what she does, barring a miracle on his part, this man will die. Eight times out of nine, his fate has been decided.

In front of them, on the other side of the lightning strike, a child is screaming, scrambling away from the collapsing pier. His hair is plastered to his face by the torrent, and spittle flies from his mouth to mingle with the falling rain and the rising spray. If Max stomps the crumbling planks, the shredded wood will give way, and the sudden lurch will trip the boy. Depending on how he falls, he might topple into the sudden gap caused by the lightning strike. Beneath them, the oil has spread, and the fire will eagerly slice across the water’s surface. The child will die screaming, burning and drowning simultaneously. If he falls backwards, he’ll land on the splintering remains of the pier. The wood will hold his light weight, and if he holds on then a sudden surge in the tide, caused by a lightning strike further down the promenade, will carry him away from the pier and the carnage of the storm. Max doesn’t know if he will hold on long enough to be rescued. He might still drown. But four times out of nine, Max’s intervention will save his life in the immediate future.

Behind them, Max knows that a motorbike is barrelling towards the pier, its driver a smoking hunk of meat after direct contact with a lightning bolt. The motorbike will crunch through the weakened wood, and the part of the pier Max is standing on will be split entirely from shore. With nothing tethered at either end, the wood will plunge into the flaming water under the combined weight of Max and Maggie. Then, the sailboat will sink completely, and drag down everything to the depths in the ensuing whirlpool. Nine times out of nine.

Life is ironic like that. The Henry family sailboat that was to be their refuge would be the cause of their deaths.

Max turns, bursting apart the suspended raindrops. The motorbike is almost to the pier, as it always is. She can cross the distance. If she lets go of Maggie’s hand, she can cross as much distance as she wants in this unmoving twilight.

But she can’t let go while time is suspended.

A vein throbs in Max’s forehead. Pressure. She never thought well under pressure. Normally, the ability to control time removed pressure; there’s no immediacy to making decisions when you can take all the time in the world. But now, Max has to choose.

The lifeguard is dead. The boy can be saved.

But there is no outcome which can save both Max and Maggie.

_“There wasn’t!”_

 

* * *

 

 

That thought shattered the link Max had forged, pulling her out of Maxine’s memories. Frustration was one of the few emotions Maxine is still able to feel; Max could taste it now, an exasperated irritation with Max’s inability to understand. Maxine expected perfection in everything, couldn’t stand things not going according to her plan. Above all, she couldn’t stand others being unable to see what was obvious to her.

It wasn’t anger, but it was the closest thing this unfeeling monster was capable of.

_“I thought everything through, did everything I could,”_ Maxine grouched. _“I did the best I could with the information I had available. Nobody else could have done better. I achieved my intended goal, why does this have you so emotional?”_

“How are you so removed from reality that you don’t even see what the problem is?” Max yelled. The horror was too great to keep in her head; Max’s shock needed to be voiced. “You’re unbelievable! You do something like that and you think that it’s okay?!”

_“Really, you’re being dramatic,”_ Maxine sniffed. _“Honestly, in hindsight, I did more than I originally thought I could. That’s perfectly acceptable. Hell, I’d even say it’s commendable.”_

“There is no ‘acceptable’ when it comes to the lives of others! How can you not see this? There is no ‘good enough’ when it comes to human lives!”

Maxine, the monster, the emotionless, uncaring creature, she was simply unamused.

_“You say it with such conviction, and yet you have no proof. You haven’t lived through what I have, experienced what I did. I was naïve like you once, you know. Before all… this. Before I got my gift. And do you know something,_ Max _? At first, I saved hundreds of people. Thousands, maybe, when you take chain reactions into account. And do you know what happened to them? What_ will _happen to them? They all_ died _. From natural causes, from supernatural events, from the idiocy or malice or desperation or negligence of other people. I saved their lives so many times, and do you know what I learnt? Life doesn’t care. It didn’t make them live longer, shorter, stronger, weaker,_ better. _They just_ lived _. And when that ended, they died. So why should I waste my time and my life to try and help those who do nothing with theirs?”_

“You’re wrong. In just a few days, I’ve done so much, helped so many. And I can and will do more! Failure isn’t an excuse to give up, it’s a reason to try harder, so that you don’t fail again, ever! I thought you became what you were because of Margherita’s suicide, but this is worse, far worse, impossibly worse!”

_“Wait, she committed suicide in your timeline? Why would- ah, I see. Her brother died, yes? Or somebody close? And then she simply gave up on living, without me there to cheer her up. Don’t you see? This proves what I was saying: people don’t even want to live. They just give up. No passion, no fight. They just exist, until the day their body or their mind fails and then they just die.”_

“How can you be so callous?” Max whispered. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wasn’t sure why. Was it regret, that she couldn’t save Margherita when she needed help? Was it fear, thinking about Chloe and how she seemed ready to give up at any moment? Or was it just despair, that there could exist a person like Maxine, who had let one moment define her entire existence and refused to change because of it. “How can you be so hypocritical? You claim that life has no meaning, but look how stubbornly you cling to yours! You want to live so much that you’d sacrifice anyone and anything just to extend your damned existence!”

_“Because dying is_ losing _. Because life isn’t equal. My life is worth every life on this world combined. Want to know why? Because I can live forever. Nobody else can. It’s simple maths: if I can live for as long as I want, why should anyone else’s life come ahead of mine? At least I want to do something with my life.”_

“And that gives you the right to decide who lives or dies? The fact that you can control time somehow makes you more important than everyone else?”

_“You’re one to talk. How many times have you used your power to interfere with the lives of everyone else? Let me take a look,”_ Maxine was silent for a few moments, no doubt as she shuffled through Max’s memories. _“Ah, here we go. You saved Chloe Price, saved Price again, saved Kate Marsh (who actually wanted to die), and oh, here you killed my Price. You’re racking up quite a debt here, all of Price’s lives. Oh, and you want to save Rachel Amber,”_ Maxine snickered, as if at some personal joke. _“It’s such a shame you can barely remember anything from my head. The things you’d know… Look, the point is, you’ve done just as much as I have. Just because you want to save lives doesn’t make you better than me. In fact, you might even be worse. At least I know what my meddling is costing; you’re taking risks for no reason other than your own vanity.”_

“My va- are you ins- actually, never mind, already know the answer to that one.” Max took a deep breath, ignoring the tingling in her skin as Maxine shuffled restlessly. The next thought she weighted with as much spite as she could before spearing it across the cosmos to anchor into Maxine’s consciousness. _“Every human life is precious. No matter the cost.”_

Maxine cackled at that, and the burst of amusement jolted Max. Satisfaction was a rare emotion from Maxine, but it burned clear like the break of dawn.

_“You seem to have this notion that life is equal. It isn’t. Every life you save is a life indebted. With interest. Maybe if you shut up about your girl scout sense of justice and morality you’d learn something. Believe it or not, Max, but I’m trying to teach you something here. Why don’t you take a closer look?”_

 

* * *

 

 

Life is unfair. Life is cruel. Life has no sense of equality, of justice. Life doesn’t care.

Life has a cost, and now life will have its due.

Max has racked up an impossible debt against life. She saved herself, and now, that price will be collected. The lives she has saved… there will be a price for them too, she thinks. She dreads the day that debt will have to be repaid.

Max turns back to look at Maggie. She stares at her for a long time. Even now, tear-stricken and terrified, she is beautiful. She is incredible. Max feels something pulse deep inside. It is a burning flame; wonderful, warming, but scorching, painful. Agony. An impossible longing.

Max carefully boxes that feeling, commits it to memory. She parcels it with the image in front of her. They will be forever linked in her mind: the fire of Margherita Henry. Max vows to never forget it.

Max rewinds. Not too far, not to a point where it becomes impossible to save everyone. Just far enough to save who she can.

It will have to be enough.

 

“Come on, Max, just a bit more!” Maggie yells over the booming thunder. There is something oddly symphonic about the storm. Flashes of light accompany deep rumbling and percussive cracks. The spectacle of nature. Max memorises this too.

Maggie tugs at Max’s hand, trying to pull her further down the pier. Their feet slip on the drenched planks, and Maggie yelps as Max slides across a puddle and collides into her. She clutches the other girl, and for a moment they stand there, skin clammy and wet. Maggie yells directly into Max’s ear, but she can barely hear her over the howling wind.

“Are you okay?”

Max is already nodding. She knows what Maggie will say. She knows everything that will happen. She has lived through these moments over and over again, desperately searching for the sequence of events that will save that which she holds dearest.

But there is no answer. There is no pattern. There is only a choice.

“Come on!” Maggie yells, tugging at Max. She pulls away, but keeps her hand firmly in Max’s. Max marvels at the feeling. For a single moment, they fit. Then, rain and wind and Maggie’s sharp tugging pulls their fingers loose. “We just need to get to the boat! We’ll be safe on board, I promise!”

Ah yes, the Henry family boat. Max counts down the seconds. She ducks her head, keeping her eyes on the ground. She knows how this goes.

 

The lightning shreds through the sailboat’s hull, a bolt of energy which melts through the fibreglass. The sheer heat shatters the area around the hole. Oil leaks from the gap like blood from a wound, spilling out onto the water. Like blood on a road.

Max turns to the side and throws up, barely aware of Maggie’s scream as it is lost in the flash of light and the explosive concussion of lightning strikes.

The sailboat is sinking into the water, slowly, but it will start plummeting as it fills with more and more water. And maybe it’s because Max has lived through this moment so many times, or maybe her powers are evolving in a way she’s never known, but when Maggie turns back to Max, it seems as if time slows down.

Max clutches Maggie’s hands in her own, pulling them together. Behind her, she can _feel_ the heat of another bolt, and she knows the motorcycle rider has just died. Next to her, she hears the lifeguard yell as he trips over the edge of the pier. Behind Maggie, out of the corner of her eye, Max can see the child screaming as he tries to run to shore, to what he thinks is safety.

But that’s not what Max is focused on. She stares directly at Maggie, and crystallises the moment into a pure image in her memory.

Max absorbs every detail of the moment, and she knows that this is what life looks like. If life was to be an art, if life was to be captured in a single frame, this is what it would be.

The woman Max loves, a beautiful wreck, stained by tears and blood and oil and rain, with her hair whipping in the wind, despair on her face as the world was ripped to shreds around them.

 

“I love you,” Max says. She doesn’t even know if Maggie can hear her, she barely whispered it, but the words come out her mouth and she knows that they are true. “I love you, and I will always love you, for as long as I live. I will never love anyone else, it will always be only you. I promise.”

Maggie’s face contorts into confusion, and Max will never know if it is from being unable to hear her words or being unable to understand them. Maggie’s lips form her name one last time.

_“Max?”_

Max stomps down with her foot. The tremor shudders the failing pier, and she hears the boy yell as he falls over from the lurching planks. The lifeguard’s scream ends in a sickening crunch. Beneath them, the flames leap to life with a roar as they devour the oil.

And Max lets go of Maggie’s hands and steps backwards. Away.

She turns around as fast as she can, but not before seeing the motorcycle fly off the edge of the pier, its driver slipping off the side to plunge lifelessly into the water. Not before seeing the metal crunch into the already-weak wood, shredding it to splinters. Not before seeing the look of utter confusion on Maggie’s face as the pier drops out from under her, and she plummets into the fiery water below.

 

Later, Max wakes up to find herself wrapped up in a tarp somewhere, buried underneath a pile of branches, leaves and rubble. The storm is over; the weather is insultingly perfect. Clear blue skies with a beaming sun, and not a cloud in sight.

Max can’t remember anything from after the pier collapsed. She doesn’t remember if she stayed long enough to check if the boy survived, or if the lifeguard did the impossible and saved himself. She doesn’t know how… how Maggie died.

Max just lies there, wrapped in her tarp. She’s still soaking wet; the tarp is thick enough that the warmth of the sun has yet to reach her. Despite this, she lies still. The chill in her skin is nothing compared to the hollow cold in her heart.

_“You’re being melodramatic,”_ she tries to chide herself, but the words are empty, devoid of meaning. What point do they serve, she wonders? What point are words when there is nothing to be said?

It is an odd, hollow feeling. A void which holds nothing, serves no purpose, and does nothing besides feel incomplete. Max can’t bear it.

Carefully, she burrows into her memory, seeking refuge from the cold both outside and in. She lingers for a moment on that last image of Maggie’s face. No anger, or betrayal, or surprise. Just confusion. A failure of understanding. She didn’t know what Max knew. She didn’t know what was happening. Max hated it.

She blows past that image, tearing it to shreds in her mind. She goes earlier, to that last image before her rewind, when the only fate was death in each other’s arms. She gingerly touches at the memory, hesitant to what it holds. There is warmth, here, she remembers. An unconditional love as the world ended. A warmth which would fill the deepest of pits, chase away the worst of the cold.

And yet, when Max reaches for the memory, there is no warmth. There is only a _burn_. An intolerable heat which scorches at Max’s mind and roasts even the lightest touch.

Max recoils from the memory. It hurts, it just hurts too much. Everything in that memory, Maggie’s eyes, Maggie’s mouth, Maggie’s touch, _Maggie_.

Max will find no solace here.

Max returns to her pit. It is cold, and lonely, and empty.

But at least there is no pain.

 

** To Be Continued **


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to: 9 Crimes by Damien Rice

Max doesn’t remember falling asleep. But, she must have done so, because now she’s dreaming.

She hopes she’s dreaming.

Before her is an enormous web, a twisting spiral of sticky silver strands. No, not silver. The strands are coated in a ghostly, pale white, but inside is a blur of colours, an entire world blended into a single stream.

Between each strand is a massive expanse of nothingness. Not black like space, nor dark like an abyss, but an empty twilight of grey shadows. The only lights came from the strands themselves, but it’s little more than a faint glow. Well, mostly. Wherever the streams intersect (and there are so _many_ points, but what is millions compared to the insurmountable nothing?), there is a red-and-white whirlpool, a tornado containing a star. The colours explode into a kaleidoscope of fire and light, and from where Max is standing she can see these glorious supernovas all around her, above and below, near and far, countless points of life within this grand emptiness.

Maybe ‘web’ isn’t the best description. It’s more like a gigantic ball of thread. A gigantic, wibbly-wobbly ball of time… stuff.

Poetry was never her strong point.

Max looks down at her feet, and is surprised to see that she isn’t standing on a thread so much as in one. Her feet splash silently in the flowing waters of a timeline and Max can’t help but watch as every movement causes tiny waves in the current.

_“If this is what happens from a step,”_ Max thinks, _“what happens if I jump?”_

“There you are. I’ve been wondering what was taking you.”

Max whips around at the sound of her voice. Because it’s definitely _her_ voice, even if it sounds completely wrong, and there is only one other person who has her voice.

“Maxine.”

And there she sits, the freckled girl with the brown hair, perched on a stream above her. Her feet hang in the empty void as she kicks her sneakered feet. Her hands are splayed behind her, casually supporting her weight as she leans back amused.

“A name that has many meanings and belongs to many people, but has only one face. But I know who you’re talking about, and I can’t say I’m her, no, but she’ll probably be joining us soon. In the meantime, I’d like to talk.”

Max narrows her eyes. _“Fool me once…”_

“And why should I trust you? Even if you aren’t her, and I’m still not sure you aren’t, for all I know you’re just another body-hopping megalomaniac.”

“True,” the other girl admits. “But, since you don’t know anything about me, I could just be like you. Another Max, displaced from her body, forced to wander Stringworld for all time.”

“What?”

“Stringworld. That’s what I call this place, anyway. You know, because it’s a like a mess of string? And it’s funny, because of string theory? Oh, forget it.” The girl waves her hand like she’s brushing away a particularly irritating fly.

“I thought it looked more like a web. A web of rivers,” Max says, and immediately she wants to hit herself for responding to what’s very possibly a time vampire or something.

The other girl nods, oblivious to Max’s frustration.

“Yeah, I can see that. Kind of. But then you wouldn’t have a name as clever as the one I came up with, you know?”

“Interesting as this is,” Max cut in. “I’d like to leave your Stringworld now. I don’t even know how I got here, but I might actually prefer the alternate universe of my insane alternate self.”

The other girl laughed at that.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Not really,” the girl said. “It’s more your situation that’s funny. Although you did say something funny, if only because of context.”

“I’m happy that you’re happy,” Max said as she turned around. “But if you’re not going to help, then I’ve got nothing else to say to you. Later.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the girl calls out.

Max ignores her. She walks down the silvery path and quietly marvels at the light splashing around her ankles. There was something beautiful in how the colours burst in bubbles of brilliance. Hypnotic…

Max blinks. She has no idea how long she’s been walking, staring at the stream. She turns around and looks up across the void, but there is no hint of her lookalike.

Max isn’t an idiot; after the week she’s been having, suspicion is more or less her default reaction to anything out of the ordinary. And this? Definitely goes in the creepy category.

Max flexes her hand. Not planning on actually using her powers, but more to confirm that they were still there, a safety net.

As it turns out, Max should really start learning to be a bit more suspicious of her powers, too.

As soon as Max reaches out for her power, the entirety of Stringworld completely loses it. The tranquil streams froth and rage into rushing rivers, the lights explode into supernovas too bright to look at, and everything warps and whips around in a maelstrom of silent carnage.

Max is blown off her feet by the blast of colour beneath her feet. Her arms windmill helplessly in the air as her feet are knocked out from under her and the current surges forward, carrying her atop a twisting mess of memories, past and future.

Images splash across her face, one after another. They shatter against Max’s eyes, burrow up her nostrils, dig into her ears. A flurry of pictures and sounds and smells batter Max’s senses in an unrelenting rush. Max instinctively spits as the stream fills her mouth and she tastes a million moments.

One after another, stills of life blow past Max. Here she is lying in bed, gazing contemplatively at a bracelet in her fingers. Here, she sits on a freshly-dug grave, dirt staining her trousers and blood dripping from the sleeves of her red jacket. Here, she has a cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other, lounging in a director’s chair in a shadowy room illuminated only by the bright spotlights on either side of her. Here, she stands in a museum, gazing contemplatively at her artwork hanging from the wall, wondering why there is no feeling of success. And here, she is slipping a pair of spectacles off a dead man’s face, a visible dent in the side of his head and blood leaking from his eyes, nostrils, mouth, ears…

The last thing Max sees before she passes out is a bright, burning red light.

 

* * *

 

Maxine chewed on her lip as she tilted her head this way and that, trying to get a better idea of the angles and shadows. She rubbed sweat off her forehead, leaving a smear of black. It didn’t matter. She was a mess either way.

Scowling, Maxine dipped her brush into the paint jar and delicately dabbed at her canvas. After a few minutes of dedicated, tiny brushing, she stepped back to compare her work to her inspiration. She frowned. Painting was so much harder than photography.

With a sigh, Maxine let go of her brush. It hung suspended in the air, unable to move in time when outside of her influence. Maxine took the paint jar in both hands and swung it, hard as she could.

It was a lousy throw; Maxine’s stick arms weren’t really conducive for an impromptu hammer throw. Still, there was something satisfying watching the paint spray outwards and then freeze mid-flight, gigantic black fingers stretching out helplessly.

Maxine whistled a tune as she walked forward, knocking over her easel. There was no crash: the easel simply toppled over and then stopped at an impossible angle to the ground.

Well, impossible in normal life. Maxine was beyond impossible.

She walked past the statue museum of insignificance. This had been a classroom, before the Cataclysm. Some agitated, underpaid teacher would stand in the front by the blackboard and desperately try to simulate an educational process for the gathered, bored, and unruly students who were more interested in the latest gossip than contour rivalry.

Maxine supposed it wasn’t too different from now as she stopped in front of the ghostly, flickering facsimile of a screaming teen tearing his face off.

The image was stuttering, like a static-filled TV, a miniature blizzard of grey and white and black trying to desperately form a coherent picture. Within the mess of shades, the boy was screaming a silent scream as he alternately ripped his cheeks to shreds and reached desperately with blood-stained fingernails towards Maxine, trying to push through whatever warped screen separated him from the rest of the world.

Maxine always wondered about that. Was he trying to reach the rest of the world? Or was he trying to escape them?

Maxine had no idea if all of these phantoms, these ghost images who had once been people, were now locked away in their personal, private hells, or if they were all together in one great communal death world. A world where time passed, forwards and backwards and vertically and diagonally, where logic and reason died in favour of uncontrollable chaos.

Maxine wished she could visit. It was probably more fun than this bland husk of a world.

Unleashing the tornado upon the world and rising as a goddess had seemed like a pretty good idea, back before she found out that doing so would banish everyone to a different reality and leave her stuck as goddess of nothing more than a time-locked empty playground.

Maxine reached out with a finger to poke at the phantom. Not that she was expecting anything different, but hey, even a goddess could be surprised, right?

The instant Maxine’s perfectly manicured finger touched the shimmering aura, the phantom crumbled into confetti, a mass of writing crystals on the floor. For a split second, an ear-piercing shriek that was more animal than human burst into the air before the time-lock grabbed the new intruder. Maxine watched the soundwaves turn to ice and the sound was gone as quickly as it arrived.

Maxine sighed. So much for scientific discovery.

Grumbling, Maxine kicked at the ashes of the boy, taking small pleasure in how each particle gave its own mini-shriek. She really wished she had some smokes right about now.

“Ask and you shall receive.”

Maxine looked up. Not startled, she couldn’t even remember what startled felt like. But maybe a bit puzzled.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Clotho was perched casually atop a table, heedless of the flyers frozen mid-flutter around her. She gestured with a lit cigarette, the red tip passing dangerously close to a hovering flyer.

“I’ve got some spare if you want.”

Maxine shrugged.

“Sure. I’ll take one.”

And then, just like that, there was a lit cigarette hanging in the air in front of her, plucked from some other dimension. Maxine took it and took a long drag. She blew out a puff of smoke which stilled in its flight to form a dusky cloud above her head.

“You do know that any enjoyment you’re feeling is purely placebo, right?” Clotho quipped, all while taking a drag of her own. “Nicotine has literally zero effect on us.”

“It’s more enjoyment of doing something different than pumping myself with mood-altering drugs,” Maxine drawled. She inhaled again, but the motion had already lost its charm. With a sigh, she tossed the cigarette over her shoulder. “Bored again. Thanks.”

Clotho shrugged. “Not my fault you have the attention span of a child.”

“I’m _bored_. There’s nothing left to do in my timeline.”

“Not my problem that you destroyed reality,” Clotho said as she blew out a perfect ring. The show-off.

“Maybe if you showed me your dimension-hopping trick, I’d have something to do.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clotho said, wagging her finger. “No way. One of me is more than enough in the Stringworld, thanks. I don’t need a horde of Maxines crowding up my space.”

“You live in infinity.”

“Which makes the size of your fat ass that much more impressive,” Clotho replied as she tapped her cigarette to dislodge the ash.

“You just get to say that because you’re in your 10-year-old body right now,” Maxine said mildly. It was the closest she could get to offended. “If you sized up to middle-aged, our ass would be literally identical.”

“Really? Only 10?” Frowning, Clotho glanced down at herself. Her short legs twiddled a good foot above the ground. “Huh. Could’ve sworn I’d picked thirteen-year-old us. I was going for a whole Remember-When-This-All-Started theme. And I don’t think you qualify as middle-aged. It’s been, what, four hundred years?”

“I wouldn’t know. That’s sort of the problem with destroying time, isn’t it? Hard to keep track of the date,” Maxine quipped.

“Your fault, not mine,” Clotho countered. She pushed a loose strand of hair into her bright blue hairband, an accessory completely at odds with the lit cig. “I’m just dropping by to see how eternal imprisonment is treating you.”

“You tell me,” Maxine replied. “You’re the one that lobotomised me and won’t let me leave.”

Clotho raised a defiant finger. “You did this to yourself. Exposure to the time streams? Never a good idea. I keep telling you, but you never listen, do you?”

“You’ve told me that if I refused to stop using my powers, the vortex would have consequences. You never told me that it would mean the annihilation of my universe.”

“Catastrophic apocalypse counts as a consequence,” Clotho objected as she ground out the cigarette stub on the table.

“Either way, that’s why time no longer exists. I get that. I don’t get why you won’t let me leave.”

“Because you’re a sadistic monster who would tear the Stringworld to pieces to sate your boredom.” Clotho replied casually. She began folding a flyer into a paper plane.

“So you keep saying. I disagree that it’s a good-enough excuse to leave me a half-dead husk.”

“Depends how you look at it. I’d say I left you half-alive. Unless you want me to just kill you?”

“Please do, at least that’d be something interesting. I-”

Maxine broke off. She cocked her head to the side, startled by a presence.

“What, break your brain again?” Clotho snapped her fingers. “Maxine?”

“Never mind,” Maxine breathed. A sly smirk began to spread across her face, no matter how hard she tried to contain it. “I think I just found my escape ticket.”

Clotho glared at Maxine.

“Now wait just a minute-”

_“Hello Max.”_

 

* * *

 

Max gasps as she breaks free of the timeline. No sooner does her head clear the swirling colours when something grasps at her ankle, and she’s dragged back into the waters. Her hands flail as she desperately searches for something to grab onto.

 

* * *

 

_“You’re not going anywhere, Max.”_ Maxine’s thoughts thrummed through Max’s mind. Already, she could feel tendrils of willpower chaining her into Maxine’s head. Max threw out a hand to try and pull herself free, but a lash of focused determination left her reeling. _“Got you.”_

_“What do you want?!”_ Max screamed as Maxine forced her deeper into the other girl’s consciousness.

_“Imagine you’re a balloon. All I’m doing is attaching my basket to you, and then you’re going to carry both of us out of here. Except that in this scenario, my basket is going to eat your balloon on the way up.”_

_“So, basically not like a basket and a balloon at all?”_

The presence of the third voice broke Maxine’s concentration, but Max herself was too stunned to take advantage of the reprieve.

Maxine looked up, and through her eyes Maxine and Max could see Clotho opposite them, now a twenty-eight-year-old beauty. The third girl’s eyes burned.

“Stay out of this,” Maxine hissed. “I’ve paid for my mistakes.”

_“You could pay for a million millennia and still not cover even the deposit.”_ Clotho’s thought rang back.

“I caught her, fair and square. She’s _mine_.”

_“Well aren’t you charmingly possessive.”_

_“I’m no one’s!”_ Max raged. She pictured Maxine’s willpower, could see them now, thick ropes of hemp. She imagined them burning, fraying, turning to ash. She imagined bursting through them, tearing them to shreds.

Maxine gritted her teeth as she fought against two different presences in her mind. She could handle them, she _could_ , but only if she could trap Max. If she could just snare the girl, bind Max’s power to her own, then surely not even Clotho could-

_“Cute, but no dice. You wouldn’t be able to beat me even if you ate Max. Which you won’t, by the way, because this one’s a fighter. Even if her hipster level is a pop culture archaeologist.”_

The ropes held firm. In fact, where there had once been hemp, now they were chains, shackles, manacling Max to the ground.

_“No!”_ Max cried out. She glared at the chains, willing them to change, break. She could imagine it now, not chains holding her down, but a box, a crystal cube on every side. She imagined she had a hammer.

_“No, no, no, no!”_ Maxine raged. Suddenly, the cube was filled with fire, scorching Max’s skin, roasting her flesh. Max’s hair burst into fire, and she screamed as it fell to the floor in blazing clumps. _“I will not stay here, a mindless vegetable, unable to live, impossible to die. You can’t do this to me!”_

_“Oh, do ignore her,”_ Clotho drawled. _“She does love to go on.”_

Max ignored the fire, ignored her skin as it crumbled into ash off her bones. She focused all her willpower into a hammer, gigantic, two-handed, an enormous block on one side and a wicked spike on the other.

_“No! I refuse! You can’t!”_

“And I do believe that’s our exit cue,” Clotho said. She tossed her paper plane at Maxine. The point bounced off her nose. “Boop.”

Max’s hammer smashed Maxine’s will into dust.

 

* * *

 

Max opens her eyes to see her five-year-old self staring down at her. Somehow, this is not surprising.

“Clotho, I assume,” Max whispered. Even that much made her throat feel like it was on fire. “Or are you yet another one?”

“Much as I’d love to pretend to be Maximus, because, really, that girl’s a riot, I’m afraid that you’re stuck with plain old Clotho,” the girl replied.

Max sits up. She finds herself floating atop the river, back in Stringworld. She isn’t sure if this was the same time stream.

“How did I get here?”

Clotho shrugs.

“Not complicated. You tried using your powers, and thanks to your utter lack of subtlety and control, Stringworld completely freaked out. You then got swept away by Maxine’s timeline, damn near drowned, so I was forced to dive in after you to rescue you. You’re welcome, by the way. Lifeguards don’t get nearly enough respect, I find.”

Max shakes her head, colour rippling around the strands of her hair.

“I don’t understand. What?”

Clotho sighs. It’s bizarre to see your toddler self be so disappointed in you.

“Every single stream you see is a timeline. Every one of those timelines has a Max. Some of them have awakened their power, some haven’t. Those big red spots where the streams meet? That’s where the timelines converge. It’s where different Maxes come into contact, or where a choice happens that created a new Max, and sometimes it’s just where the vortex decided to be a bitch.”

“… What?”

“The vortex? You know, the source of our powers, the swirling pool of energy which controls time, causes chaos and destruction if it’s too badly disturbed?”

Max gestures to her face.

“See this blank look? Assume it applies to everything.”

Clotho rolls her eyes, and that definitely looks weird on a five-year-old.

“I’ll make it simple for you. Basically, every timeline has a Max, every Max is able to use their powers, and every time you use your powers, you risk destabilising the vortex which gives you those powers. When the vortex gets messed up enough, it then starts doing little things like eating your soul and tearing apart reality.”

“Like a tornado?” Max blurts out.

Clotho sighs. “Well, yes, I suppose it _could_ make a tornado, but really, that’s peanuts compared to what normally happens. Although I suppose there was the time that it did rain peanuts…”

“And who are you?” Max asks. She’s starting to feel a little better now. By which she means that she doesn’t feel like she wants to puke up her intestines. “Or maybe the question is what?”

Clotho shrugs again.

“I’m me. Clotho. Previously called Max Caulfield. I decided to change my name after a while. There are so many Maxes here, it makes it hard to differentiate.”

“But where’s your timeline? How are you just waiting around in Stringworld? What’s your story?”

Clotho laughs. She hops to the side and Max has to turn her head to watch her. The young-but-ancient child crouches on the edge of the river, staring out at Stringworld.

“There are some questions which have dangerous answers, Max. There are some stories which are better left unknown. My story is not one for normal people. It is long, and tragic, and terrible beyond imagining. You’d learn much and understand more, but the things you’d uncover would destroy your life. I don’t want to do that to you. Not like I did to the others.”

“Maxine,” Max whispers. The timeline is cool against her lips.

Clotho nods.

“Her and others. After their catalysts, the moment when the vortex lashes out at them? I tried to help. Help them, so that they didn’t go through what I did.” Clotho shakes her head. “I would’ve done better to stay my touch.”

“Why? What did you say to them?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Clotho says in a heavy voice. “I simply reached out, down into the streams, and I touched their mind directly. I imparted some of my knowledge into their minds, a fingerprint upon their soul. Just a touch, to prepare them against the world to come.” Clotho looks to the side and her face was tight with grief. “Idiotic. It was idiotic, what I did. But I was so young then, so naïve. I possessed a power, and I thought that meant I could solve all the world’s problems. The delusions of the young and foolish. If there’s any lesson to learn from my story, Max, it’s that idealists are simply monsters unrealised.”

“But… Maxine, she abandoned Margaret, and that was before she met you. And even after, the things she’s done… to everyone at Blackwell…”

“Things aren’t as simple as we make them out to be, Max,” Clotho says. “Maxine was never the most stable girl. She’s different from you and me, and most other Maxes. She discovered her powers when she was relatively young, and she discovered them when she needed to save her own life at the cost of another. But I’m afraid that the touches of my powers and yours have quite possibly ruined her forever.”

“Mine?” Max raises her head, despite the exhaustion. “What did I ever do?”

“You invaded her timeline, Max. You changed your own past, and in doing so you altered the past and future of everyone connected by the Stringworld. Her monstrosity is as much your doing as it is mine and hers.”

“But,” Max is at a loss for words. Her mouth hangs open as she stares at Clotho, flabbergasted. “But that was after! After she was already a monster!”

“Was it? Even I can’t say. It’s possible that your interference caused the birth of two Maxes, one who discovered her powers in Seattle and one who discovered them on returning to Blackwell. Or maybe your actions caused a thousand Maxes to be born, all with a different destination. Or maybe your action in the past changed Maxine’s future.” Clotho hums pensively. “There’s no way of knowing for sure. Time isn’t a straight line, a river flowing in one direction, despite all appearances around us. It’s an ocean, with tides and currents and waves and disturbances, a writhing mass beyond the control of any human. We’ll never know.

“What I do know is this,” Clotho stands up and she turns to face Max. She kneels down and pulls a reluctant Max upright. She stares directly into her counterpart’s eyes. “Understanding is not excusing. Whatever she was, might have been, will be, or is, Maxine right now is a terrible beast with no care for anything beyond her own entertainment. She’s not even looking for fun or enjoyment; the only thing she desires is an escape from boredom. Pity her if you must, but in the way you might pity a rabid dog. If you drop your guard, if you try and reach out to her, she will tear you to shreds. Already, she’s invaded your body and your life. Give her half a chance, and she will dominate your mind and utterly crush you. If that happens, you will cease to exist, nothing more than a wisp of memory floating around in the subconscious, and Maxine will own two bodies.”

“But, in the memory I just saw, or the future, or whatever it was,” Max protests. “She was completely catatonic. You’d broken her, ruined her.”

“Maybe, but that’s in the past. Or maybe the future. The point is, you touched her again, and now she knows where you are. Well, future Maxine does, the Maxine you know doesn’t.” Clotho waves her hand again, brushing aside the technicalities. “Whatever the case is, the Maxine you’re familiar with, the Maxine currently in your body? You’re about to meet her again.”

“What, here?”

“No, not here, come on, keep up.” Clotho snaps her fingers in front of Max’s face. “Maxine can’t come here, I’ve made sure of that. Unfortunately, you’ve intertwined your timeline with hers, so she can cross directly into your existence without needing to have a pit stop here first. And if she gets complete control of your body and her own, then I have no idea what that’ll do. Probably collapse the entire multiverse, but hey, I’ve been wrong before. Are you willing to take that chance?”

“Why do you keep talking like it’s my fault and my responsibility?” Max shoves Clotho aside. Not hard, but enough to get the other girl out of her personal space. “From what you said, we’re both responsible for what’s happened.”

“Gee, that sounds like a great idea,” Clotho says mockingly as she catches her balance. “Instead of having two Maxes fighting over two bodies, let’s have _three_ Maxes and two bodies! What could possibly go wrong? While you’re at it, I’d like to divide this cookie into zero pieces, please!”

“It’s not like you’re trying to take _our_ bodies! I just need your help containing Maxine-”

“Nope. Not going to happen. You’re on your own for this one, princess. I’ve already risked way too much saving you the first time. I’m not taking another chance with the vortex. My power’s too volatile as-is. In proximity to you two? Yikes.”

“So, what, you’re going to abandon me on my own against Maxine? How is that any less of a risk than you helping me?”

“Because I believe you can beat her. I don’t believe that we can stop the entire Stringworld from imploding and taking reality with it.”

“How?” Max asks, and she hates how sad and pathetic her voice sounds. “How can I possibly beat her? She’s had years with her powers. I’ve had a few days.”

Clotho snorts at that. She brushes imaginary dust off her pants.

“Max, time power isn’t complicated. This isn’t, like, rocket science or nuclear physics. The rules of reality don’t apply to the place that exists outside of reality. Well, conventional reality, anyway. Sorry, tangents. The point is, this power we possess? It’s fuelled directly by your willpower. Your determination is what bends it to your will and makes the impossible possible. How do you beat Maxine? Quite simple. You just have to _want_ it more than she does.”

Max scowls. This is less helpful than she’d hoped.

“Somehow, I think the egomaniac who has one goal in life has more drive to achieve that goal than anyone else.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Maniacs who only want one thing must surely pour all their determination into that single thing, so it must be more than your varied goals, right? Nope.” Clotho exaggerates the word, making the ‘p’ pop loudly. “It’s not a math equation, Max. It’s not like you have three buckets and only so much water. Quite simply, you have more to live for than Maxine does. She just wants to stop being bored and to stop thinking. But I think that it’s different for you, isn’t it?”

Clotho turns to face Max eye-to-eye, and Max blinks, surprised, because suddenly there’s a toddler with the oldest eyes in the world staring back at her.

“So, Max. What is it that you’re living for?”

Max thinks of her family. She thinks of Seattle, and the friends and foes left behind. She thinks of Oregon and of Blackwell Academy. She thinks of the teachers, brilliant Mr Jefferson and passionate Ms Grant. She thinks of the faculty, odd old Samuels, browbeaten Principal Wells, conflicting and conflicted David Madsen. She remembers the students, the artsy ones, the studious, the skater gang, even the Vortex Club. She imagines Warren beaming at her. She imagines Joyce smiling. She pictures Chloe.

Clotho nods at whatever she sees in Max’s face.

“You’ll do fine.”

Max takes a deep breath and looks down at her feet. Beneath her, the time stream sparkles by lazily. Max’s fingers twitch as she prepares her power. She glances at Clotho.

“So what, I just use my power? Let time was me away?”

“Not exactly. If you do that, no telling where you’ll go. Try use your powers to control the flow. It’s like surfing, except without a board.”

“… So basically nothing like surfing at all?”

“Look, just, do what feels natural. Just think of where you were, when you want to face Maxine. The vortex will try to drag you down. Ignore it. You’re the master here. _You_ get to decide what happens.”

Max nods. She’s suddenly terribly aware that she’s about to face off against Maxine, willingly, and this time without any back-up. Spontaneously, she grabs Clotho and pulls her into a hug. The other girl (Woman? Crone? Spirit?) tenses. After a few moments, she awkwardly pats Max on the back.

“If I fail…” Max begins.

“You won’t.” Clotho says. She pulls away, evidently done with hugging. She gestures. “Go get her.”

Max nods again, vigorously this time. Before she can delay longer, grow more doubtful, she splays her hand outwards and summons the power of time to her fingertips.

Instantly, the stream roars into a crushing surge of liquid light. But this time, Max is prepared for it. So instead of being pushed further down the timeline, carried on the current, Max stands her ground and lets the memories fly past her. She catches snippets of sound and pictures, of smells and touches and tastes, but she doesn’t look, doesn’t try to catch the fleeting sensations. She knows what she’s looking for.

As a brilliant ball of red appears at the edges of Max’s vision. A convergence, Clotho had called it. Max knows which convergence this one is.

_“Go kick her whiny millennial ass.”_

Max grins at Clotho’s last piece of advice. She lets the light envelop her.

 

** To Be Continued **

 


End file.
